by Peter Newman
They continue north together.
Soon, others join them.
Her gifts eventually fail, but the Uncivil is always happy to repair her faithful and they in turn are happy to maintain her. The Usurper’s orders are still followed; she remains alert for the Malice. But in the main, the hunt is given over to her agents, making room for her own plans, making room for rebellion.
They set off early, making their slow way down the mountainside. The Vagrant lags often, the goat dragging him along, gleefully. By midmorning they are on solid ground, plodding north.
Several miles behind, a mountaintop moves, detaching itself, a weighty shadow, bounding and sliding in pursuit. Landing, it breaks into a run, swallowing the distance between it and the unsuspecting group. Even far away it appears large. They only have to turn to see it. They do not.
‘Have you ever been to Slake before?’ asks Harm.
The Vagrant shakes his head.
‘I’ve not either but I’ve heard some very bad things. Even so, it would be better if we got supplies in Slake and miss out Wonderland altogether. I was there a few years ago.’ His voice drops to a mutter. ‘It’s a long story.’
The Vagrant nudges him.
‘It’s too dangerous for us. Babies are in demand there and it’s virtually impossible to hide. They say the Uncivil knows everything that happens within its walls. A man once swore to me that if you stay too long she eats your dreams.’
The Vagrant raises an eyebrow.
‘I know it’s not true!’
‘Wuuuue!’
The unexpected sound stops both men dead. They look at each other then slowly turn to the innocent looking bundle in Harm’s arms.
‘Wuuuue!’
Amazed smiles shine on the baby’s upturned face.
‘Seems she knows it too.’
‘Ooooo!’ says Vesper. ‘Oooooowuuuuuueooooooooo!’
‘Yes! Good, very good. What else can you say? Can you say: Harm?’
‘Ooooo!’
‘That’ll do for now.’ Harm leans closer, whispering in Vesper’s ear. ‘I’m glad you’ve decided to pitch in. It takes the pressure off me.’
The Vagrant takes Vesper under the arms, throwing her high and catching her. Happy squeals rise and fall several times, voicing approval, wanting more.
On the fourth throw, the sword joins in, humming along.
Frowning, the Vagrant looks back.
The Hammer that Walks is close now, each blink making her double in size. They are in open ground, exposed and without sanctuary and they are tired. There is little to do.
Harm takes back the baby, who begins to cry.
The Vagrant draws the sword, holding it forward, ready. He glances over at the green-eyed man, mouthing a message.
‘Leave you again? I … I don’t know.’
The glance becomes a glare but they are out of time.
The Hammer arrives, legs drumming the ground, storming towards the Vagrant.
The sword’s tip bows forward, pointing towards the Hammer’s chest.
Ten great strides separate them, then nine, eight, seven, six, and she jumps high, higher, over the Vagrant’s head, defying gravity, a sky-scraping tank.
Sword and Vagrant watch the giant shadows sail past, agog.
She lands behind him, pressing forwards towards an open mouthed goat.
Harm finds he can run after all, urged along by the leash on his wrist. He might as well race the wind.
The Hammer skids up behind him, ploughing a wave of dust. She taps the back of his legs lightly with a steel clad foot, cracking bone.
Harm blacks out, falls, the baby spilling from his arms.
The goat keeps going, dragging the green-eyed man behind her.
Fatigue forgotten, the Vagrant races after, sword building to a roar. His strike lands on the Hammer’s raised forearm, shield broad. Light flashes blue, blackening the Hammer’s bracer.
With her other hand she smacks the flat of the sword side on, ripping it from the Vagrant’s grip. The blade spins through the air, eye rolling in fury, impotent. It clatters to the ground ten feet away.
Unarmed, the Vagrant squares up to his opponent. Next to her towering form, he looks like a child. Taking a deep breath he raises his fists, managing to dodge the first sweep of her arm. The second takes him by the throat, lifting him up and up, until their eyes draw level.
He cannot break her hold. He tries anyway, pulling till veins bulge.
She squeezes and holds his gaze until amber eyes close and arms droop. Satisfied, the Hammer slings the Vagrant over her shoulder and collects the sword. Ignoring the bubbling hiss of metal and sudden warmth on her gauntlet, she marches south, back towards the mountains, taking her prize to the Usurper.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The goat pulls frantically, backing away as fast as she can. Death is coming, angry and quick. She must escape! Her legs scrabble in the dust, working for every inch of ground. It is impossible, the man tied to her is too heavy.
She bleats with fear and venom.
Nearby, the baby cries. The goat flicks her ears in annoyance. But no other sounds are apparent. And she has not been eaten.
She looks up.
The big death is leaving, taking that man with it. She watches it go, head on one side, waiting until they are small shapes far away. Then, with uncharacteristic energy she snaps up her leash and chews.
And chews.
And chews.
The Vagrant twitches, his face a dreaming mask, tormented. Eyes fly open and he sucks in a breath. Above, two suns dance slowly round each other, glimpsed in gaps between clouds. It is afternoon. He brings two fingers to his neck, gingerly touching reddened skin. About his legs snakes a length of broken pipe, made string in the Hammer’s fingers and tied in a crude knot.
His captor squats nearby, hunched forward, hiding something from sight.
The Vagrant pushes up onto his elbows, looks about. The ledge appears much like the one he recently rested on. He and the Hammer are alone. There is no sign or sound of Vesper or Harm or even the goat. He closes his eyes, covering his face with quick hands to hide the trembling.
Three slow breaths come and go, then hands lower, revealing features firm, resigned.
He tries to pull the pipe from his legs but the metal has recovered from the Hammer’s molestations and refuses to budge. Then he spies the sword. It lies next to the Hammer, smoking with rage. Its hilt points towards the Vagrant.
He rolls onto his front, using his elbows to inch forward. Each drag of his body over rough stone sounds like an avalanche, each breath a declaration of intent.
The Hammer remains distracted. She does not hear or does not care.
He sees now that she attends to something small. With a stifled grunt he pushes himself up on his palms, stretching to see over the wall of her thigh.
A coin sits, like a star in the night of her palm. She throws it awkwardly and it lands, clunking, dull. Her great shoulders sag.
The Vagrant edges to the sword. Lowering his body to the ground he stretches for it.
Fingertips brush the hilt.
The Hammer twists round.
The Vagrant closes his eyes. He feels something grasp the back of his coat and then he is moving, skidding on his chest.
The Hammer leaps after him, grabbing him one fisted, pressing him against the mountainside.
His bound legs swing together, useless, tapping on armoured thighs.
Snarling with rage, the Hammer curls her fingers tight and pulls back to strike.
The Vagrant raises a hand in front of his face. In it, he holds a coin.
The Hammer’s blow freezes in the air.
Wheezing, the Vagrant tosses the coin. For him it sings. Silver light dances in the Hammer’s eyes and anger melts from her face, forgotten. He catches, tosses it again and she watches, enraptured. Oxygen starved hands fumble the catch.
As one they look at the fallen coin, then back at each other.
&nb
sp; The Vagrant swallows.
The Hammer’s head turns, indicating her ready fist, then goes back to the Vagrant. She uncurls her fingers and lowers him to the ground, releasing her grip on his chest. She towers over him as he gasps in air, then picks up the coin and drops it into his open hand.
He looks up at her.
Her voice is gravel spinning in a bin. ‘More!’
Nodding slowly, he tosses the coin again.
At the sound, tension falls from her. She sits opposite the Vagrant, eyes only on spinning silver. ‘More!’
Time passes and the coin leaps up, again and again.
The Hammer takes her own coin and tries to mirror the man before her but her thick, metal clad fingers are unequal to the task. She roars with anger.
The Vagrant stops.
She notices immediately. ‘More!’
The Vagrant shakes his head.
‘More!’
The Vagrant points to the pipe binding his feet.
The Hammer raises her fist. ‘More!’
The Vagrant shakes his head.
Her blow drives sense from his world and for a time the Vagrant dreams, restless.
He wakes to an eye swollen shut and a gap where a tooth once sat. The pipe is gone from his legs.
The Hammer leans over him. ‘More?’
He nods.
The coin dances three times, then stops.
The Hammer’s small eyes narrow. ‘More?’
He beckons her closer. She comes.
He points to her coin. Puzzled, she lifts her hand to him, open, disc shining on her outstretched fingers. He nods and taps his own coin against it.
Reunited, the silver sisters sing. The duet haunts the ears, stirring regrets and things lost.
When it ends the Vagrant puts his coin into her other hand.
Her eyes glisten, water growing at their edges. ‘Mine?’
The Vagrant nods.
She smiles, a girlish expression sketched from monstrous jaws, and touches one to the other. Together, they sing for her.
The Vagrant risks standing up. There is no retaliation. He walks to where the sword lies, glances back to his captor. Her eyes are fixed on the coins, quivering beautifully in her hands. He sighs, picks up the sword.
The point drifts towards the hulking figure, lining up with her neck.
He walks carefully, quietly, until he stands behind her.
She touches the coins together a second time, starting another song. Massive shoulders shake and she underscores the melody with rasping sobs.
The Vagrant sighs again, forcing the sword back into its sheath. Wiping memories from his eyes, he turns and walks to the mountain path, beginning the long descent.
In Verdigris, two rebels march. One on each side of the street, brother on the left, sister on the right, both Usurperkin, both full of purpose. People gather in doorways, watching them in stunned silence. At each building the scarred giants grapple with the signs they find there and tear them down.
Behind them, littering the street, banners to the Uncivil and the Usurper lie, united at last in the dust, trampled by the people that follow.
Defiant chants fill the air.
Three streets away, lost in the cacophony, a man cries in fear. He has seen something emerge into the afternoon. Something dangerous that threatens the rebels’ fragile victory. He rushes to tell his neighbour and his story grows wings, rushing ahead in a wave of whispers, carried by running feet, dashing from mouth to ear. It comes at last to a small boy who overtakes the procession, waving his hands to get the Usurperkins’ attention.
‘Max! Maxi!’ he calls.
Two scar-painted heads recognize their names, turn. Muscles tense under green skin, hearing trouble in the boy’s tone.
‘Tough Call needs you at the north gate right now! Bring everyone!’
The boy runs off, pulling the giants and their followers with him like a black hole with dirty feet.
When they reach the gate they find a crowd blocking the way, thick and brazen, bristling with guns. They cheer a welcome. Max and Maxi cheer back. Like two bubbles, the groups meet, coming together, sharing borders, expanding.
Weaving between the crowd, a part and apart, is a man dressed in loose and stripy robes. His voice darts to and fro, ducking under shouts and oiling over dissent. He finds a woman, seasoned by life, proud. Hiding his shark’s smile, he begins:
‘Ah, friend, you have a most magnificent gun I see. But what does a gun make you but a killer? No, any fool sees you are more than that, you are one of Verdigris’ true children, standing to be counted. Surely Ezze finds himself before a great soldier, yes? One of Tough Call’s army? But what is a soldier without a uniform? I tell you, friend, you are in luck, for Ezze has with him armbands decorated with the “V” of the new order. Each is sewn by rebel children born beneath the city in darkness and is of the highest quality. They come in many colours. Your choice, friend! Price? Ezze could not possibly take payment, this is his honour! But … there is a ring on your finger, from the old order, yes? Such a thing diminishes you. Ezze will take it, replace it with this fine symbol of hope. Wear it and be proud!’
The exchange is quick and the man fades away before the bitter taste can set in.
Max and Maxi’s heads bob above the crowd, two green ships in a people sea. They search for their leader but cannot see her.
A boy runs into view, arms like pistons, face like clean bone. ‘The Knights of Jade and Ash are coming!’ He is smart, does not join the crowd, running past, becoming obscure.
Max and Maxi move to the front. They turn; the sister raises her voice: ‘Is this our city?’
‘Yes!’
‘Did you fight for it?’
‘Yes!’
‘Will you fight again?’
‘Yes!’
‘And will you win?’
‘Yes!’
‘I said,’ she bellows, ‘will we win?’
‘Yes!’ they shout. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
From around a corner comes the sound of clanking armour, at which the crowd’s chanting falters to a murmur. A figure steps out in front of them and a feeling of dread leeches into the waiting army. Four more knights join the first, their armour writhing as if trying to escape its host, stretching and straining and collapsing back into shape. Endlessly, hopelessly.
The crowd’s front line trembles, guns point uncertainly toward the knights.
‘Hey down there!’ shouts Tough Call, leaning from a high window.
The knights march on, heedless.
In her only hand the woman holds a rocket launcher. Soot clings to the filigree around the barrel. ‘I’d stop if I were you.’
Three feet from the crowd, the knights pause.
The rebels are forced to gaze at their enemies. They do not recognize their fallen champions within the pitted, breathing metal. Quietly, they despair.
From her perch, Tough Call has strength to share. ‘That’s better,’ she continues. ‘Everyone, let them through, and somebody open the gates!’
A ragged path opens as the crowd pulls back.
‘Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I am a hundred per cent behind you leaving Verdigris. But if you so much as threaten any of my people or try and come back, know that we’ll be waiting for you.’
There is a pause, lengthy. The knights are fathomless, impossible to read. People begin to sweat. A gauntlet moves to grasp a warped hilt. Four others echo the gesture.
‘Just give me an excuse,’ says Tough Call, watching them through winged sights. Led by her example, scores of guns find their courage, clicking in salute, ready.
Turning slowly, the knights take in their opponents, measuring each one. Every individual feels their images being taken, burned into alien memory. Then, swords still sheathed, the knights march from Verdigris.
Tough Call punches the air and the rebels cheer, drawing warmth from each other. They shout and laugh till the knights are tiny dolls in the distance. With a bang, the
north gate closes, unable to shut out the secret dread flowering in their hearts.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Stones slip underfoot, under fingers. The mountain is keen to move the Vagrant on. He stays upright, mostly. Skating and stumbling, making his way down. At his side, the sword thrums a warning. The Vagrant stops and half draws the weapon. It stares back up the mountainside. He follows the arrow of its gaze.
Keeping her distance, nestled in the rocks, he sees the Hammer. Amber eyes seek the sky briefly, asking hard questions.
The sky does not care to answer.
He continues his descent, pausing sometimes to raise the scope to his eye, scanning the flatlands below. It is a clear day and the small round screen soon finds Harm’s body, bringing it close. Vesper is next to him, hands and feet drawing circles in the air. A half smile finds its way onto the Vagrant’s face. He puts the scope away and heads towards the distant speck. The sword growls softly all the way.
By late evening he arrives.
From his back, Harm raises a hand in greeting. ‘I can’t believe it! You’re alive!’
The Vagrant nods and squats next to Vesper. Toes are tickled, smiles exchanged. The Vagrant sniffs the air and leans back, wrinkling his nose.
Vesper giggles.
‘She needs a change,’ Harm adds needlessly. ‘You’ll have to do it. When you’re done, can you look at my leg? I think it’s broken.’
The Vagrant gets to work. Soiled clothes are removed. Naked legs pedal with increased vigour. The Vagrant starts cleaning, then reaches for something that isn’t there. He stops mid-motion. A frown dawns.
‘Your goat’s run away,’ says Harm. ‘And she’s taken our supplies with her.’
Still frowning, the Vagrant removes his scarf and wraps Vesper in it.
‘She’ll need feeding soon. We all will. Do you have a plan?’
The Vagrant doesn’t answer, crawling over to examine Harm’s leg.
‘How does it look?’
The green-eyed man studies the silence. ‘Oh. Isn’t there anything you can do?’ The Vagrant presses his lips together, his face paling. ‘Please, help me!’
‘EeeeeEEEEeee!’ says Vesper.
The Vagrant gives a tiny shake of his head and shuffles backwards.